What Should Have Happened
by Drop of Grace
Summary: Post war, the end of the Harry Potter series, but a little different.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters in this story, or any places just the plot.**

Draco stared miserably out the window of the car. His father had died in the war. Killed by Lord Voldemort, his now dead master. _I guess that's where being a death eater got him. _Draco thought. His mother had an emotional breakdown when she saw her husband dead on the ground. She was in St. Mungo's hospital. He was by himself now.

Everyone was going to his father's funeral, even Harry Potter and his friends. He was in black dress robes now, with a high collar that made him look limos he was hiding from something. In the car lane beside him, Draco saw a shock of red hair that could only belong to Ron Weasley.

Ron looked at him, with something like amusement. _Father took a wrong turn, and now he's trying to get into yours, _the boy mouthed. Draco sighed. Weasley's were so idiotic sometimes, but at least they had a father.

At the funeral, Draco saw Harry, Ron and Hermione standing off to the side. Harry Potter. The boy who made all of his father's efforts futile. He supposed that he knew that Potter would win eventually. Isn't that what always happened in stories? Good won against evil. But the main character always found their long-lost fathers and lived happily ever after. Draco knew his father was lying six feet under in a black marble tomb.

Narcissa Malfoy had been transported here by port key, and Draco was afraid that the journey was too rough for her. She sat beside him Thea wheelchair, shaking with silent tears that poured down her pale cheeks.

At the end of the funeral, Harry Potter came over to where Draco was sitting by himself. Draco never liked that boy, but now he knew what it felt to lose someone he loved. He couldn't imagine how it would be like if his mother was to gone too.

Draco flinched away from him as Harry sat down by him. He wasn't looking for pity from his greatest enemy. But when Draco stared defiantly into those vivid green eyes, there was no pity there. Only sadness, reminisce, and a little understanding.

"Hey Malfoy," he said. Draco didn't answer.

"Sorry about your father," the boy was staring at him with an unnerving gaze.

"'S ok," he answered with mono syllable words, remembering the conversation he had with The Boy Who Lived when he first met him in Diagon Alley.

"Sorry about being such a jerk to you in the past," Harry plowed on vigilantly.

"Mmmmmhmmm..." Draco was nonplussed. What did he want?

"Do you know where you're staying after this?" Potter looked genuinely concerned. Draco shrugged. "You could stay with me and the Weasleys, if you want." Draco was startled.

"W-w-we'll see." Draco hated the stutter in his voice.

"Friends?" Harry stuck out his hand, and slowly, and hesitantly, Draco shook it.

"If I must, Potter." The first smile since his father died stretched across his face. He wasn't used to smiling, much less smiling at Harry Potter. The two boys walked over to Narssica.

"Hello, Mother," Draco said, bending down to hug her. She only looked at her son with wide, watery pale blue eyes.

"Draco," she whispered, just before a medic came and wheeled her away. Hermione Granger came over, and in those golden brown eyes was the unwanted pity.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Don't be." Draco snapped at her. She turned away, a little crestfallen.

"Come on," Harry surprised Draco with the concern in his voice. Then he surprised him again and put an arm around him. "Let's go."


	2. Chapter 2: Draco's Back Story

Draco stared at the ceiling, hands behind his head. He was staying with the Weasley's, in the shabby little home the called the Burrow. Across the room from him, Ron Weasley snored. How were you supposed to sleep if Ron Weasley snored like a train? Draco looked at Harry, lying curled up on the floor, his glasses on the floor beside him. As he watched, Harry raised his head and looked at him. He smiled slightly, still half asleep. Startled, Draco went back to staring at the ceiling. Eventually, he heard Harry turn over and fall asleep. Then Draco was thrown into a memory.

_Eleven-year-old Draco Malfoy stood still, admiring his reflection in the mirror. A middle-aged witch pinned his new robes. Draco's gray eyes stared back at him from the mirror, accompanied by a hesitant upturn of thin pink lips. Draco frowned at his features: the soft white-blond hair smoothed back from his pale skin, the delicate pink lips, the thick white-blond lashes framing gray eyes. Truth be told, Draco actually found himself to be quite handsome, but the opinion was constantly dampened by his father's comments of "You'll grow into your features one day, Draco." A cock of the head and a frown often accompanied the phrase, his father clearly not finding in Draco's appearance what he'd hope of the heir to the Malfoy leader._

The Draco from now sighed, closing his eyes, seeing the face of his father. Even though Draco had never been close to Lucius Malfoy, he still was his father.

He remembered that his reflection had always been a companion of sorts, keeping him company when he was most lonely – which was often. He had led an isolated childhood, having only his father's cohorts as a choice for playmates. After making the mistake of mentioning it one time when he was six, his friendship with his reflection had been one more thing he kept from his parents, at risk of appearing too childish.

He remembered that everything he did revolved around avoiding his father's disapproval. That was something that always seemed to happened after displays of softness of character on his looks, his imaginary friendship with his reflection . . . most of it things his father didn't like.

He remembered sighing, directing the air upward to toss a few stray hairs off his forehead. He was starting Hogwarts in a few days. He had hoped things would be better there.

The Draco now did the same. Why did everything have to be so hard?

He remembered a tinkle of a bell as the door to the shop opened.

He remembered watching in the mirror as a scrawny boy with black hair and round-rimmed glasses walked in. He had looked nervous as he exchanged a few words with Madam Malkin, and then made his way towards where he was being fitted at the back of the store.

He remembered his pulse elevating in excitement – his first chance to make a friend of his own. His father considered friendship for the weak wizards. But Draco could not think about his father at a time like this – he'd been lonely for too long; and his eyes widened in anticipation of befriending this messy-haired boy.

He remembered the boy got closer, and he stepped up onto the stool next to him. He really looked at him then. He was about His size – a little shorter, but just as wiry – with messy black hair that fell into his dark green eyes. The lenses of his glasses were smudged – honestly, has he never heard of a cleaning charm? – but despite the smudges, the vibrancy of those eyes was clear.

He remembered when the boy cast a look at him, the effect of those eyes focusing on him, Draco Malfoy, sent a jolt of anxiousness through the pit of Draco's stomach.

"Hello," he had said to cover up the nausea of exhilaration and nerves, "You going to Hogwarts, too?"

"Yes," said the boy.

"My father's next door buying my books and my mother's up the street looking at wands," he had informed him. "Then I'm going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don't see why first years can't have their own. I think I'll make father get me one, and then I'll smuggle it in somehow."

He remembered his voice falling into the affected Malfoy drawl he used in public since he had learned to speak. It became especially exaggerated whenever he bragged, like he started to do.

He remembered a stirring of unease in his stomach. The boy did not seem to like him, much to his alarm. He'd assumed friendship would be easy to make once he had the chance, but it seemed that might not be the case after all.

"Have you got your own broom?" he asked. Perhaps the boy just needed an invitation to speak of himself.

"No," said the boy. He tried to swallow the worry that he was going about this wrong. Shouldn't friendships start off with conversations which consisted of more than one-syllable replies? Now, Draco just laughed at himself.

"Play Quidditch at all?" he had said desperately.

"No." The boy was looking bored

In his desperation, Draco allowed himself to brag. Perhaps if he could market himself well enough the situation could still be salvaged. "I play Quidditch – Father says it's a crime if I'm not picked to play for my house, and I must say, I agree. Know what house you'll be in yet?"

"No," said the boy, yet again.

He resisted the urge to stomp his foot in frustration. He desperately wanted to make an impression on him, wanted this strange boy with the bright green eyes to be his friend. He was unlike any of the dull brats his father set him up with: Pansy, Crabbe, and Goyle.

"Well, no one really knows until they get there, do they," he babbled, "but I know I'll be in Slytherin, all our family have been – imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?"

"Mmm," said the boy, looking nonplussed.

A looming figure outside the window caught Draco's attention and he latched onto it as a point of conversation, something the two of them could share. Wasn't that the sort of thing people bonded over?

"I say! Look at that man!" He exclaimed, pointing.

"That's Hagrid. He works at Hogwarts." said the boy, and he wanted to sigh in relief that this boy was finally saying more than 'yes' or 'no' in response to something he had said.

"Oh, I've heard of him," the blonde said, eager to continue this thread as long as he could, to prolong their conversation. "He's a sort of servant, isn't he?"

"He's the gamekeeper." The boy frowned slightly, and Draco wondered what he could have possibly said wrong.

"Yes, exactly. I heard he's a sort of savage – lives in a hut on the school grounds and every now and then he tries to do magic, and ends up setting fire to his bed," said Draco, a laugh ready on his tongue for the moment when the other boy would join him in amusement at some of the more eccentric members of the wizarding world.

That moment didn't come.

The boy's frown deepened as he said, "I think he's brilliant," in a chilly voice.

"Do you?" He was aghast. Then comprehension dawned on him. He had said something wrong, because this boy was – for some inexplicable reason – friends with the gamekeeper. "Why is he with you? Where are your parents?"

"They're dead," said the boy, bluntly.

"Oh, sorry," he had said, too taken aback to remember to sound sincere. "But they were our kind, weren't they?" Now, Draco realized the cruelty of those words.

"They were a witch and wizard, if that's what you mean."

"I really don't think they should let muggleborns in, don't you? They're just not the same; they've never been brought up to know our ways. Some of them have never even heard of Hogwarts until they get the letter, imagine," said Draco, aware that he was shooting off his mouth again. "I think they should keep it to the old wizarding families. What's your surname, anyway?" he added, suddenly realizing he didn't yet know the boy's name.

But that silly old woman Malkins had to go and interrupt before the boy could answer.

"That's you done, my dear," she said to the boy.

"Well, I'll see you at Hogwarts I suppose," said Draco, cursing the fact that he had ordered so many robes. Now he had to continue getting fitted for robes, rather than being able to leave with this boy and walk around Diagon Alley together, buying the rest of their school supplies. Not that the boy seemed very inclined to want to do such a thing with Draco anyway, he admitted to himself, cursing his inexperience at this whole making friends thing.

The boy left with a shrug, not meeting Draco's eyes, and Draco was once again alone with his reflection.

When the witch pinning his robes accidentally poked him with a pin he squealed with much more indignation than necessary, just to relieve his frustration.

A few days later Draco strode down the hallway of the Hogwarts Express, moving as fast as his legs could carry him toward the compartment everyone was saying was his – Harry Potter's. A boy they were all describing as a scrawny little thing to have defeated the Dark Lord, with black hair and glasses. And green eyes, Draco was willing to bet.

His usually quiet heart was pounding yet again, with this boy as the cause: partly out of panic that he might have fudged an opportunity to befriend the most famous wizard in Britain, and partly out of excitement at the opportunity to redeem himself. Draco could just see it, the pair they'd make – the Malfoy heir and the savior of the wizarding world. At the moment, he didn't care to waste thoughts on the fact that his father served the very Dark Lord that killed Harry Potter's parents. His father approved of little when it came to Draco; if he was going to be scorned for forging friendships in the first place, Draco didn't think the scorn could increase all that much depending on who the friends were.

Draco paused briefly to collect himself and make sure that Crabbe and Goyle were still following him, and then slid the door of the compartment open.

The boy from Madam Malkin's was sitting inside, across from a flame-headed boy in a shabby homemade sweater. He looked up, startled, at Draco's entrance, then his features settled into wariness.

"Is it true? They're saying that Harry Potter's in this compartment. So it's you, is it?" asked Draco, though by this point he was all but certain. He could see a faint edge of a scar on the skin of the boy's forehead, in between clumps of dark hair.

"Yes," said Harry Potter, back to one syllables. Draco caught his gaze drifting behind him towards the two large boys flanking him.

"Oh, this is Crabbe and Goyle. And my name's Malfoy, Draco Malfoy," he said, eager to return Harry's attention to him.

The red-head sniggered and Draco glared, now having the presence of mind to resent that the boy had evidently succeeded where Draco had failed in befriending Harry Potter.

"Think my name's funny, do you? No need to ask who you are. My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford," said Draco, slicking his voice with disdain. His only hope now, he thought, was to show Harry Potter how much better he was than the Weasley boy. With this thought, he turned back to Harry. "You'll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there." Draco extended a pale hand towards Harry.

Harry looked at it for a moment. Draco felt his skin warm beneath the stare of those green eyes. Then his eyes rose to meet Draco's, a piercing and unintimidated gaze that made Draco want to look away. He wasn't used to people looking him in the eye without a shred of respect. But he refused to break Harry's gaze. That would feel too much like backing down, and eleven years of training as the future Malfoy leader meant that backing down was an impossibility.

"I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks," said Harry.

Draco's heart froze in his chest, then fell into his stomach and shattered.

Even as a disappointed, embarrassed blush spread across his cheeks, a sharp-edged new resolve hardened in Draco's stomach: a reformation of the shards of his broken heart. Draco's father had been right, he decided. It had been foolish to desire to befriend Harry Potter.

No, if Harry wouldn't be his friend, he would be his rival. And Draco would not rest until he came out on top.

Then the worse memories came.

Draco remembered his mother, screaming, "No! Not Draco, please, have mercy" then a flash of green light, and his father, tackling his son, getting hit by the curse instead.

He remembered the broken look in his mother's eyes. Now, she was in St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies. like a window, broken beyond repair, no matter how desperately and how hard Draco tried. His mother, and his father.

They Were Gone


	3. Chapter 3: They Lived Happily Ever After

The Next Morning...

Draco awoke to someone gently shaking him.

A voice said, "C'mon, Malfoy, get up, it's time for breakfast!" Blearily, he opened his eyes and saw Harry Potter standing over him. He sat up.

"Wha-?" then he remembered. He was in "The Burrow" the home of the Weasleys. "Oh. I'm coming, Potter, I'm coming." He snapped.

"Glad to see your feeling better!" He said, walking to the door.

"What do you mean, 'feeling better'? I was fine in the first place!" Draco called after him.

After splashing his face with water and pulling on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, Draco wearily stumbled into the kitchen. Everyone was sitting and laughing around and enormous table.

And Everyone meant Harry, Ron, Hermione, Bill, George, Ginny, Percy, Mr. Weasley, Mrs. Weasley, Charlie, Fleur DeLacour, and a fluffy ginger cat named Crookshanks.

As soon as he stepped in, Mrs. Weasley bundled him to a seat beside Harry and Percy Weasley, and placed a plate heaped with Eggs, toast, Waffles, bacon, and a lot of syrup.

Draco ate with the rest of the family, listening in on an argument Percy and George were having over who put the beetle in Percy's soup.

Draco studied George Weasley. His twin had died in the war, and now, he seemed to be doing fine. Yes, in every smile, there was a sadness, as if the other half of his smiles were always completed by his brother. Yes, George Weasley was missing an ear, yes, every single person at this table had a sad and reserved mood for everyone that had died in the war. But they were happy. How did they do it? It was something Draco had missed out on in his childhood.

Ginny, who had raced up the stairs, came down holding a squealing, green haired baby boy. It was Teddy Lupin, the son of Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks, both of which died in the war. The baby seemed fine too.

He was laughing and grabbing great fistfuls of Ginny's flaming red hair. The baby's hair, kept changing colors, from baby blue, to bright green, to bubblegum pink. This boy -Teddy Lupin- was both a metamorphmagus and a werewolf. He could morph away and sadness in his eyes, he could get rid of the injuries he received after he transformed.

Draco wished he could do that. He still had burn marks on his arm, from when Harry had saved him from fiendfyre, dark scars that marred the pale flesh. Of course, they were healing over and would eventually fade away, but somethings just never fade. Plus, he was tired of the frightened and accusing stares from others, tired of people flinching and going silent every time he entered a room.

_But here,_ Draco realized,_ they don't do that. They don't care what I've been like before, what I've done, who my father is._ Just then, Ron Weasley passed him a plate of toast, smiling at him in a completely happy and friendly way.

"You want some, Mate?" He asked, holding the plate out.

"Sure." Draco took the plate from him. _Mate,_ Draco thought. _Friend._ And for the first time, Draco felt like he was home.


	4. Chapter 4

**Sorry, I've been experiencing a slight case of writer's block, so this story is currently on HIATUS! This isn't a chapter, and I know I'm breaking rules. Any ideas and reviews might get me writing again! Thanks!**

**Drop of Grace (Grace for short)**


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